The Arthur Morrison Mystery

by Arthur Morrison

  “And I suppose Deacon wouldn’t sell it?” Dorrington asked.

  “No,” Mr. Colson replied. “He wouldn’t have sold it at any price, I’m sure. Well, Kanamaro pressed him very urgently, and called again and again. He was very gentlemanly and very dignified, but he was very earnest. He apologised for making a commercial offer, assured Deacon that he was quite aware that he was no mere buyer and seller, but pleaded the urgency of his case. ‘It is not here as in Japan,’ he said, ‘among us, the samurai of the old days. You have your beliefs, we have ours. It is my religion that I must place the katana in my father’s grave. My father disgraced himself and sold his sword in order that I might not starve when I was a little child. I would rather that he had let me die, but since I am alive, and I know that you have the sword, I must take it and lay it by his bones. I will make an offer. Instead of giving you money, I will give you another sword—a sword worth as much money as my father’s—perhaps more. I have had it sent from Japan since I first saw you. It is a blade made by the great Yukiyasu, and it has a scabbard and mountings by an older and greater master than the Goto who made those for my father’s sword.’ But it happened that Deacon already had two swords by Yukiyasu, while of Masamuné he had only the one. So he tried to reason the Japanese out of his fancy. But that was useless. Kanamaro called again and again and got to be quite a nuisance. He left off for a month or two, but about a fortnight ago he appeared again. He grew angry and forgot his oriental politeness. ‘The English have the English ways,’ he said, ‘and we have ours—yes, though many of my foolish countrymen are in haste to be the same as the English are. We have our beliefs, and we have our knowledge, and I tell you that there are things which you would call superstition, but which are very real! Our old gods are not all dead yet, I tell you! In the old times no man would wear or keep another man’s sword. Why? Because the great sword has a soul just as a man has, and it knows and the gods know! No man kept another’s sword who did not fall into terrible misfortune and death, sooner or later. Give me my father’s katana and save yourself. My father weeps in my ears at night, and I must bring him his katana!’ I was talking to poor Deacon, as I told you, only on Tuesday afternoon, and he told me that Kanamaro had been there again the day before, in a frantic state—so bad, indeed, that Deacon thought of applying to the Japanese legation to have him taken care of, for he seemed quite mad. ‘Mind, you foolish man!’ he said. ‘My gods still live, and they are strong! My father wanders on the dark path and cannot go to his gods without the swords in his girdle. His father asks of his vow! Between here and Japan there is a great sea, but my father may walk even here, looking for his katana, and he is angry! I go away for a little. But my gods know, and my father knows!’ And then he took himself off. And now”—Mr. Colson nodded towards the next room and dropped his voice—“now poor Deacon is dead and the sword is gone!”

  “Kanamaro has not been seen about the place, I suppose, since the visit you speak of, on Monday?” Dorrington asked.

  “No. And I particularly asked as to yesterday morning. The hall-porter swears that no Japanese came to the place.”

  “As to the letters, now. You say that when Mr. Deacon came back, after having left, apparently to get his lunch, he said he came for forgotten letters. Were any such letters afterwards found?”

  “Yes—there were three, lying on this very table, stamped ready for postage.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I have them at my chambers. I opened them in the presence of the police in charge of the case. There was nothing very important about them—appointments and so forth, merely—and so the police left them in my charge, as executor.”

  “Nevertheless I should like to see them. Not just now, but presently. I think I must see this man presently—the man who was painting in the basement below the window that is supposed to have been shut by the murderer in his escape. That is if the police haven’t frightened him.”

  “Very well, we’ll see after him as soon as you like. There was just one other thing—rather a curious coincidence, though of course there can’t be anything in such a superstitious fancy—but I think I told you that Deacon’s body was found lying at the feet of the four-handed god in the other room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just so.” Mr. Colson seemed to think a little more of the superstitious fancy than he confessed. “Just so,” he said again. “At the feet of the god, and immediately under the hand carrying the sword; it is not wooden, but an actual steel sword, in fact.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “Yes. Now that is a figure of Hachiman, the Japanese god of war—a recent addition to the collection and a very ancient specimen. Deacon bought it at Copleston’s only a few days ago—indeed it arrived here on Wednesday morning. Deacon was telling me about it on Tuesday afternoon. He bought it because of its extraordinary design, showing such signs of Indian influence. Hachiman is usually represented with no more than the usual number of a man’s arms, and with no weapon but a sword. This is the only image of Hachiman that Deacon ever saw or heard of with four arms. And after he had bought it he ascertained that this was said to be one of the idols that carry with them ill-luck from the moment they leave their temples. One of Copleston’s men confided to Deacon that the lascar seamen and stokers on board the ship that brought it over swore that everything went wrong from the moment that Hachiman came on board—and indeed the vessel was nearly lost off Finisterre. And Copleston himself, the man said, was glad to be quit of it. Things had disappeared in the most extraordinary and unaccountable manner, and other things had been found smashed (notably a large porcelain vase) without any human agency, after standing near the figure. Well,” Mr. Colson concluded, “after all that, and remembering what Kanamaro said about the gods of his country who watch over ancient swords, it does seem odd, doesn’t it, that as soon as poor Deacon gets the thing he should be found stricken dead at its feet?”

  Dorrington was thinking. “Yes,” he said presently, “it is certainly a strange affair altogether. Let us see the odd-job man now—the man who was in the basement below the window. Or rather, find out where he is and leave me to find him.”

  Mr. Colson stepped out and spoke with the hall-porter. Presently he returned with news. “He’s gone!” he said. “Bolted!”

  “What—the man who was in the basement?”

  “Yes. It seems the police questioned him pretty closely yesterday, and he seized the first opportunity to cut and run.”

  “Do you know what they asked him?”

  “Examined him generally, I suppose, as to what he had observed at the time. The only thing he seems to have said was that he heard a window shut at about one o’clock. Questioned further, he got into confusion and equivocation, more especially when they mentioned a ladder which is kept in a passage close by where he was painting. It seems they had examined this before speaking to him, and found it had been just recently removed and put back. It was thick with dust, except just where it had been taken hold of to shift, and there the hand-marks were quite clean. Nobody was in the basement but Dowden (that is the man’s name), and nobody else could have shifted that ladder without his hearing and knowing of it. Moreover, the ladder was just the length to reach Deacon’s window. They asked if he had seen anybody move the ladder, and he most anxiously and vehemently declared that he had not. A little while after he was missing, and he hasn’t reappeared.”

  “And they let him go!” Dorrington exclaimed. “What fools!”

  “He may know something about it, of course,” Colson said dubiously; “but with that sword missing, and knowing what we do of Kanamaro’s anxiety to get it at any cost, and—and”—he glanced toward the other room where the idol stood—“and one thing and another, it seems to me we should look in another direction.”

  “We will look in all directions,” Dorrington replied. “Kanamaro may have enlisted Dowden’s help. Do you know where to find Kanamaro?”


  “Yes. Deacon has had letters from him, which I have seen. He lived in lodgings near the British Museum.”

  “Very well. Now, do you happen to know whether a night porter is kept at this place?”

  “No, there is none. The outer door is shut at twelve. Anybody coming home after that must ring up the housekeeper by the electric bell.”

  “The tenants do not have keys for the outer door?”

  “No; none but keys for their own rooms.”

  “Good. Now, Mr. Colson, I want to think things over a little. Would you care to go at once and ascertain whether or not Kanamaro is still at the address you speak of?”

  “Certainly, I will. Perhaps I should have told you that, though he knows me slightly, he has never spoken of his father’s sword to me, and does not know that I know anything about it. He seems, indeed, to have spoken about it to nobody but Deacon himself. He was very proud and reticent in the matter; and now that Deacon is dead, he probably thinks nobody alive knows of the matter of the sword but himself. If he is at home what shall I do?”

  “In that case keep him in sight and communicate with me, or with the police. I shall stay here for a little while. Then I shall get the hall-porter (if you will instruct him before you go) to show me the ladder and the vicinity of Dowden’s operations. Also, I think I shall look at the back staircase.”

  “But that was found locked, with the key inside.”

  “Well, well, there are ways of managing that, as you would know if you knew as much about housebreaking as I do. But we’ll see.”

  III

  Mr. Colson took a cab for Kanamaro’s lodgings. Kanamaro was not in, he found, and he had given notice to leave his rooms. The servant at the door thought that he was going abroad, since his boxes were being packed, apparently for that purpose. The servant did not know at what time he would be back.

  Mr. Colson thought for a moment of reporting these facts at once to Dorrington, but on second thoughts he determined to hurry to the City and make inquiry at some of the shipping offices as to the vessels soon to leave for Japan. On the way, however, he bethought him to buy a shipping paper and gather his information from that. He found what he wanted from the paper, but he kept the cab on its way, for he happened to know a man in authority at the Anglo-Malay Company’s office, and it might be a good thing to take a look at their passenger list. Their next ship for Yokohama was to sail in a few days.

  But he found it unnecessary to see the passenger list. As he entered one of the row of swing doors which gave access to the large general and inquiry office of the steamship company, he perceived Keigo Kanamaro leaving by another. Kanamaro had not seen him. Mr. Colson hesitated for a moment, and then turned and followed him.

  And now Mr. Colson became suddenly seized with a burning fancy to play the subtle detective on his own account. Plainly Kanamaro feared nothing, walking about thus openly, and taking his passage for Japan at the chief office of the first line of steamships that anybody would think of who contemplated a voyage to Japan, instead of leaving the country, as he might have done, by some indirect route, and shipping for Japan from a foreign port. Doubtless, he still supposed that nobody knew of his errand in search of his father’s sword. Mr. Colson quickened his pace and came up beside the Japanese.

  Kanamaro was a well-made man of some five feet eight or nine—remarkably tall for a native of Dai Nippon. His cheek-bones had not the prominence noticeable in the Japanese of the lower classes, and his pale oval face and aquiline nose gave token of high sikozu family. His hair only was of the coarse black that is seen on the heads of all Japanese. He perceived Mr. Colson, and stopped at once with a grave bow.

  “Good morning,” Mr. Colson said. “I saw you leaving the steamship office, and wondered whether or not you were going to leave us.”

  “Yes—I go home to Japan by the next departing ship,” Kanamaro answered. He spoke with an excellent pronunciation, but with the intonation and the suppression of short syllables peculiar to his countrymen who speak English. “My beesness is finished.”

  Mr. Colson’s suspicions were more than strengthened—almost confirmed. He commanded his features, however, and replied, as he walked by Keigo’s side, “Ah! your visit has been successful, then?”

  “It has been successful,” Kanamaro answered, “at a very great cost.”

  “At a very great cost?”

  “Yes—I did not expect to have to do what I have done—I should once not have believed it possible that I could do it. But”—Kanamaro checked himself hastily and resumed his grave reserve—“but that is private beesness, and not for me to disturb you with.”

  Mr. Colson had the tact to leave that line of fishing alone for a little. He walked a few yards in silence, and then asked, with his eyes furtively fixed on the face of the Japanese, “Do you know of the god Hachiman?”

  “It is Hachiman the warrior; him of eight flags,” Kanamaro replied. “Yes, I know, of course.”

  He spoke as though he would banish the subject. But Mr. Colson went on—

  “Did he preside over the forging of ancient sword-blades in Japan?” he asked.

  “I do not know of preside—that is a new word. But the great workers of the steel, those who made the katana in the times of Yoshitsuné and Taiko-Sama, they hung curtains and made offerings to Hachiman when they forged a blade—yes. The great Muramasa and the great Masamuné and Sanénori—they forged their blades at the foot of Hachiman. And it is believed that the god Inari came unseen with his hammer and forged the steel too. Though Hachiman is Buddhist and Inari is Shinto. But these are not things to talk about. There is one religion, which is yours, and there is another religion, which is mine, and it is not good that we talk together of them. There are things that people call superstition when they are of another religion, though they may be very true.”

  They walked a little farther, and then Mr. Colson, determined to penetrate Kanamaro’s mask of indifference, observed—

  “It’s a very sad thing this about Mr. Deacon.”

  “What is that?” asked Kanamaro, stolidly.

  “Why, it is in all the newspapers!”

  “The newspapers I do not read at all.”

  “Mr. Deacon has been killed—murdered in his rooms! He was found lying dead at the feet of Hachiman the god.”

  “Indeed!” Kanamaro answered politely, but with something rather like stolid indifference. “That is very sad. I am sorry. I did not know he had a Hachiman.”

  “And they say,” Mr. Colson pursued, “that something has been taken!”

  “Ah, yes,” Kanamaro answered, just as coolly; “there were many things of much value in the rooms.” And after a little while he added, “I see it is a little late. You will excuse me, for I must go to lunch at my lodgings. Good-day.”

  He bowed, shook hands, and hailed a cab. Mr. Colson heard him direct the cabman to his lodgings, and then, in another cab, Mr. Colson made for Dorrington’s office.

  Kanamaro’s stolidity, the lack of anything like surprise at the news of Mr. Deacon’s death, his admission that he had finished his business in England successfully—these things placed the matter beyond all doubt in Mr. Colson’s mind. Plainly he felt so confident that none knew of his errand in England, that he took things with perfect coolness, and even ventured so far as to speak of the murder in very near terms—to say that he did not expect to have to do what he had done, and would not have believed it possible that he could do it—though, to be sure, he checked himself at once before going farther. Certainly Dorrington must be told at once. That would be better than going to the police, perhaps, for possibly the police might not consider the evidence sufficient to justify an arrest, and Dorrington may have ascertained something in the meantime.

  Dorrington had not been heard of at his office since leaving there early in the morning. So Mr. Colson saw Hicks, and arranged that a man should be
put on to watch Kanamaro, and should be sent instantly, before he could leave his lodgings again. Then Mr. Colson hurried to Bedford Mansions.

  There he saw the housekeeper. From him he learned that Dorrington had left some time since, promising either to be back or to telegraph during the afternoon. Also, he learned that Beard, the hall-porter, was in a great state of indignation and anxiety as a consequence of the discovery that he was being watched by the police. He had got a couple of days leave of absence to go and see his mother, who was ill, and he found his intentions and destination a matter of pressing inquiry. Mr. Colson assured the housekeeper that he might promise Beard a speedy respite from the attentions of the police, and went to his lunch.

  IV

  After his lunch Mr. Colson called and called again at Bedford Mansions, but neither Dorrington nor his telegram had been heard of. At something near five o’clock, however, when he had made up his mind to wait, restless as he was, Dorrington appeared, fresh and complacent.

  “Hope you haven’t been waiting long?” he asked. “Fact is I got no opportunity for lunch till after four, so I had it then. I think I’d fairly earned it. The case is finished.”

  “Finished? But there’s Kanamaro to be arrested. I’ve found—”

  “No, no—I don’t think anybody will be arrested at all; you’ll read about it in the evening papers in an hour, I expect. But come into the rooms. I have some things to show you.”